Touch
by BelleEpoque17
Summary: She lets him touch her.


**Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing Castle-related except the DVDs. Yay.**

She lets him touch her.

This is relatively new, and a rare delight. She's not a touchy-feely person by nature, so the few who are priveleged enough to cross that barrier are special indeed. Castle hadn't known that when they first met; he was all up in her personal space, invading her invisible bubble with unwanted affection - a kiss on the cheek, a less-than-subtle brush of the fingertips - and what he didn't realize was that he was actually pushing her farther away. After all these years, however, their situation has reversed completely, and he certainly isn't complaining.

She teases him about how fussy he is with his hair. "You probably spend more time on it in the mornings than I do on mine!"

He opens his mouth to retort in indignant shock, but she cuts him off by reaching up and running her fingers through his hair until it stands on end. He ought to be annoyed, but he has to smile. Her eyes spark with mischievous delight, daring him to reciprocate, so he darts out a hand and tousles her long curls.

"Castle!" she sputters. She didn't think he would do it.

"Sorry," he grins lopsidedly, and smooths out the tangles for her. She waves him off with a huff, but her smile is uncontrollable. Well, so is his.

"Give me a hand, will you?"

He zips her dress for her. He's at her apartment before some Nikki Heat party because he wants to give her something. She'd straightened his tie after he walked in earlier that evening. He'd given her a diamond.

Necklace. A diamond necklace. "Always" is engraved across the back in microscopic letters. He drapes the silver chain around her neck and fixes the clasp, making sure not to catch any of the fine, curling hairs at the nape of her neck. The pendant glitters elegantly below the curve of her pale throat, and she fingers it dreamily, caught up in the moment and the feel of the cold metal against her skin and the ticklish brush of Castle's fingertips at the back of her neck. Any excuse for him to linger has long since expired, but she doesn't bother pointing it out.

He thrills with every second that goes by, marvelling at the flawlessness of her skin and the extent of her tolerance. She has not recoiled from him yet. The midnight blue satin of her dress is slashed open to reveal the elegant angles of her shoulderblades and the curve of her spine.

A low, humming note, like a cello, snakes past her lips and surprises them both, though neither let on. "It's beautiful, Castle."

"As are you. I wanted you to have something special tonight."

"And you thought you wouldn't be perfectly adequate?"

Delight. It pools in a warm, buttery puddle around his heart. "The thought crossed my mind more than once, I admit."

"Imagine."

"I know. I should do better in the future."

"It's a new low, even for you, Castle."

_This dress is a new low_, he thinks, because give him a break, it's true, but he never considers saying it aloud. "Self-absorbed Castle will make his regular appearance next time, don't worry," he assures her. "No more of this diamond-for-the-lady nonsense. Not even flowers."

There's a silence, because diamond is such a big word, and he's still drifting across her skin. They're both momentarily enthralled.

She turns, her dress rustling as it brushes against the fabric of his suit (when did he get so close?), and smiles up at him, straightening his tie again. "Well, you look good," she says lightly. "I might let you pass inspection."

"Does this inspection include a pat-down?" he asks cheekily, and she pokes him in the shoulder gently.

"Real funny."

"Well, don't you want to be sure you don't have to worry about any concealed weapons this evening?"

"I'm not too worried about you packing heat, Castle."

"You know, since I met you, that phrase has taken on so much more meaning."

"You're pushing it, Richard."

"Sorry."

They're both dressed to the nines, but if they leave now, they'll be fifteen minutes early. She rests her hands flat against his chest, feeling the faint rise and fall as his lungs expand and contract. He smiles down at her (though not far - she's wearing three-inch heels), and she returns the smile, full wattage. Brilliant as a star. A supernova. Pearly whites and a midnight sky.

All right, so he's not suited for poetry. He settles for tucking a stray tendril behind her ear, letting his fingers trail along her jaw until it reaches the skin of her throat. She swallows but doesn't move, doesn't look away. Down, down. To her shoulders, deceptively slender - she's strong. Down, to the base of her shoulderblades. Her eyelids flutter. Down, all the way to her waist, where his fingers make shapes on the exposed skin.

She can appreciate a writer's hands. No callouses or cuts, no fumbling. Rather, they're quick and light and gentle, nimble and mesmerizing as they dance across her back, inking invisible tattoos that speak of coffee and elevators and unexpected kisses in the night.

Unexpectedly (or inevitably), they kiss. It's silky hair and smooth skin and a flutter of eyelashes and a moment of escape from the world. From the universe. Just Kate and Castle. And then they remember that they need to go, that they just spent ten minutes totally wrapped up in each other and now have time to make up for, and that before they turn off the lights and lock the door, they need to whisper _always_ to the empty room.

The room will keep the secret.

**Spelling/grammar errors removed, folks! Sorry I didn't catch them earlier.**


End file.
